


The one in which a sleeping bard gets off on humping a wakeful witcher

by lunacosas



Series: What sharing a bed leads to [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Grinding, M/M, Olfactophilia, Scent Kink, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy/Unconscious Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27343201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunacosas/pseuds/lunacosas
Summary: Sharing a bed with Jaskier while the bard recovers is perhaps not the best idea Geralt has ever had.(Only... it is.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What sharing a bed leads to [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015182
Comments: 23
Kudos: 264





	The one in which a sleeping bard gets off on humping a wakeful witcher

**Author's Note:**

> My mind informed me that Jaskier 100% would get off on sniffing Geralt, so that's why this fic happened.
> 
> It has been a long time since I've written anything, I'm honestly so please/relieved/excited to have finished something right now. The title is thanks to Kali, who also points out that "there would be pining if Geralt had more self-awareness".
> 
> Please read the tags - dubcon is there because Jaskier unaware of what he's doing.

In hindsight, Geralt wonders if they should be sharing a room, far less a bed, but coin is tight and the too-soon-embraced habit dies hard. Sharing never bothered him before, and given the weariness which had rolled off of Jaskier in waves with every step he took, a night or two at an inn, in a real bed, seemed like a good idea at the time. He questions the decision now, unsure of himself. The illness that gripped Jaskier these last few days – fervently denied on the bard’s part as he flushed and shivered, sweating out all moisture he took on – has all but passed, little more than a remnant, but something still seems… amiss. There was little that could be done while they were so far from any town, but Geralt wonders if he should have ignored Jaskier’s reassurances that he was okay. Perhaps the last two nights beneath the stars (with a fire built up, and Geralt keeping a more watchful eye than usual) took more than Jaskier had to give. Being close to Geralt does not seem restful, if the way Jaskier shifts in his sleep is anything to go by. In bed alone, he would fare better, and Geralt would not have to have thrown the covers off himself, removing his shirt to account for the heat of Jaskier’s body.

But they’re sharing now, and Jaskier presses closer, warm in a way that’s not quite cloying, not quite feverish, and yet is both. Geralt can sense the fragility of his sleep, his mind too close to the surface to allow for Geralt to slip away without disturbing him. He lies still, waiting, hoping… Hoping for what he doesn’t know – his awareness of Jaskier to fade, perhaps. All he can hear is the erratic whisper of his breathing, the unsteady rhythm of his heart. He can smell the last few days of earth mixed with a stale, feverish tang, the oil gathered at the roots of Jaskier’s hair and the lingering scent of rosemary and wine on his breath. The heavy sounds of the silence before dawn are far away, distant enough not to exist as Geralt meditates on Jaskier, trying to work out what is amiss.

It is only when Jaskier shifts again, rolling onto his side to face towards Geralt, that the pieces begin to take shape. They do not fall into place, because there is nowhere for them to fall, no way to make sense of the fact that Jaskier moans brokenly in his sleep, the pressing heat between his thighs flush against Geralt’s hip. Geralt holds himself still, foregoing air as his heart picks up speed, his senses alert, mind racing. Jaskier remains asleep, oblivious, and as the moments slip by, stretched thin and wavering, Geralt lets out a slow, steady sigh. Jaskier is unaware of where he is, or who he is with. There is no more meaning in the fevered swell of his unintentional arousal than there is in a drop of rain. It will pass.

At least, that is what Geralt tells himself as Jaskier shifts again, a less than subtle movement to his senses. The stuttering of Jaskier’s hips is accompanied by a sigh, an almost-murmur warm on the bard’s lips, and Geralt holds himself still, waiting for Jaskier to pull away. Instead, Jaskier presses closer still, his nose burrowing into the space between Geralt’s shoulder and the bedsheets.The thing that burns through Geralt’s body is close to shame, the tang of mortification fierce within him as he realises Jaskier has no reason to move away. The bard remains plastered to his side, the cloying flush of his arousal encouraged by the presence of a warm body, something to press against, to be anchored by.

It is not that he has never found Jaskier’s arms around him upon waking, but Geralt falters in the face of being used as… friction.

He does not allow himself to think too closely on the way his heartbeat quickens, his senses devoted to trying to read Jaskier. The bard is still asleep, his consciousness resting just below the surface, not quite out of reach. Fever and exhaustion have ceded to a firm, insistent need that, were he conscious, Jaskier might have the good sense to satisfy with his hand, or a tight cunt. As it is, Jaskier possesses enough awareness to know that his fingers graze against the hair on a man’s chest, that the hip he slowly grinds against is angular, not curved, the arm he burrows against bound with muscle. He is aware enough to know, and not pull away. Like a fantasy he denies his waking self, Geralt realises, before his blood runs hot as he understands that Jaskier has had this with other men. There is honesty in his desire, a rawness to it Geralt cannot acknowledge because it lies too close to his own heart.

He wishes for Jaskier to be rested, to be well. He considers himself, his willingness to end… whatever this is. To pull away now would be to rouse Jaskier, and create an uneasy need to speak about what must go unspoken. Those rare few mornings Geralt has woken to Jaskier’s closeness, the bard has torn himself away with speed, laughing in dismissal and thereafter keeping his distance. His reaction always feels like shame, which is unfounded, because the humanity he gives Geralt with a simple touch is a gift above all else. Jaskier’s reaction is a shadow Geralt does not wish to cast upon their day, nor does he wish to disturb his fragile rest. When Jaskier shifts again, breathing hot against Geralt’s bicep, he makes his decision.

Jaskier does not hate him. Whatever else he feels, it is not that. He is forgiving to a fault, and if he were to wake to what is happening, Geralt is sure he will eventually forgive this too. He feigns a murmur for the sake of Jaskier’s half-awareness as he moves, shifting his arm to embrace Jaskier, not quite pulling him closer, but not letting him go either. The gesture could almost be innocent, if there were anything natural about Geralt allowing someone closer rather than pushing them away.

Jaskier’s reaction is visceral. He catches his breath with a gasp, hips stuttering forward as he moans against Geralt’s side. His head tilts up, nose pushing into Geralt’s armpit, and, far from being repulsed, he burns with renewed longing. Geralt can smell it on him, can feel the way his desire hardens almost to the point of pain, his heart singing a fitful melody within his chest. He holds Geralt without realising who he is with, content to simply be beside someone, to inhale whatever scent clings to Geralt’s skin after days on the road. Geralt cannot pretend he smells pleasant, but to Jaskier’s dulled senses something about it is clearly pleasing, heightening a need so insistent it spills forth in his sleep.

Geralt cannot – will not – move. His limbs seize in place as Jaskier’s breath tickles the hairs of his armpit, the thinly clothed heat of his cock seeking friction a little lower now, against Geralt’s thigh. The warmth welling up within his own body is carefully dismissed, left resolutely unacknowledged, because to accept it would make him a participant, rather than a tool. He closes his eyes against his own want, better able to see Jaskier’s, to be nothing more than the warmth and friction Jaskier needs to satisfy this part of himself. It is a part of the bard Geralt, for all its peculiarity, finds that he likes; it is unguarded and honest, weird beyond measure, but he finds no reason to pull back. Jaskier, in his own way, smells good too, a little too warm, a little too much like a fever just breaking, but he smells of desire and contentment, his pleasure a salty-sweet, satisfying note as he burrows deeper against Geralt, making himself at home there. His hips replay the firm, steady motion, his breath damp against Geralt’s skin as it comes in shorter, sharper gasps.

It does not last. It cannot, Geralt knows. At least the end comes for what feels like the right reasons, rather than Jaskier jolting awake and tearing himself away in a fit of shame. The bard’s body trembles with all that it can no longer contain, pulled tight for one breathless, perfect moment, and then dampness is soaking between them, Jaskier’s hips jerking forward in messy conclusion, his breathing erratic and fingers biting into the unguarded flesh of Geralt’s stomach. The stolen honesty of it hurts, makes Geralt long to reach for Jaskier and hold him close. He smothers the foolish impulse, lets it pass, lets Jaskier’s body settle back into a steady rhythm, falling back into restful sleep. His hair is mussed, his brow damp when he relaxes enough to ease away from where he has pressed himself against Geralt, and Geralt watches him for several moments, unable to answer the question that rises within him, lodged deep within his chest.

In the end, he closes his eyes again. There is nowhere to go, not least of all because Jaskier has made a pillow of his arm. There will be time to deal with the aftermath – Jaskier’s embarrassment and the come staining his skin and clothes – later. Geralt is in no rush to get there.

Somewhere outside a songbird sings, and Geralt huffs at it, meditating instead on the soothing melody of the man asleep beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't be shy to comment if you enjoy this! I'd like to try writing more geraskier (although maybe not while quite so sleep deprived...) Maybe even a continuation of this, because there was more I wanted to write but anxiety got the better of me.


End file.
